


As We Mean To Go On

by monimala



Category: Warrior (TV 2019)
Genre: Age Difference, Class Differences, F/M, Gap Filler, problematic fave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:20:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29139171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monimala/pseuds/monimala
Summary: Filler for episode 2.4, bridging the gap between Sophie and Leary’s scene at the fighting pit and what happens after.Not now. Not yet. It has to be her choice.
Relationships: Sophie Mercer/Dylan Leary
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	As We Mean To Go On

“You wouldn’t be my first,” she insists, her stubborn little chin tilting upward as she brushes her delicate fingers along the piano keys. Fingers that have never known a hard day’s work or had dirt beneath the nails.

“Wouldn’t I?” He looks her up and down. Prim, proper Miss Mercer in her ruffles and lace. He’s already tasted the skin beneath. Just that tiny bite of her, the pale flesh of her throat, the nape of her neck underneath her wild hoyden hair, haunted him for days. “Those fancy uptown boys of yours fumbling in the dark isn’t anything at all,” he dismisses with a growl. “Has your Mr. Spencer Thornhill thrown up your skirts and fucked you where you stand? Ever had a man put his tongue to you till your knees give?”

Her gasp echoes like thunder in the empty bar. Needy and raw. He can’t remember the last time he heard a sound so beguiling. Her eyes are big with shock but glittering with promise. He can practically smell her lust, already feel it drenching his fingertips. He clenches his hands at his sides so he doesn’t give in and touch her. Not now. Not yet. It has to be her choice. This fancy girl with all her boarding school airs and her back-alley bloodthirst. If she really wants to fuck the likes of him, she has to finish the journey she’s begun. She has to acknowledge it.

“Mr. Leary…” He can see her cheeks are pink, even in the dimness, and he knows that she’s blushing all over. That the lips of her quim are flushed with want. She doesn’t realize what she’s asking. For him to take her, break her, and shatter himself in the doing of it. Or maybe she does. Perhaps that’s what this has been all along. 

“Dylan,” he corrects her softly. “If you want this, if you really want this, you ought to call me ‘Dylan.’”

She shapes her mouth around his given name. Quiet. Barely a whisper. This isn’t the brash young woman from the fights, the one he watched from across the pit as she downed a tankard of beer and teased her uptown gentleman. There’s no one here to see her rebellion. And that’s fine, because she doesn’t rebel. There’s no one here to see his surrender. Because he _does_ surrender. When she says it. When she says, “Dylan, I need you. _Please_ , I need you.”

She’s not his first. Not by years and miles. But it’s been a long time since he buried his wife. A long time since he’s had anything but his own hand for company. He gathers her close, winds his hands in the curls of her hair and kisses her like she’s air and water and earth and fire. Like she’s the Devil’s own torment and God’s own blessing. Like he did that day in his office. But that was just an indulgence. A forbidden flirtation for a girl on the wrong side of town. This…this is the beginning of something.

This is walking her backward to the stairs and tugging her up to his room. A path he knows by heart. So he can learn her body just as well. Every nook. Every corner. Every soft place to rest. This is helping her strip off her layers of fine clothing, shrugging out of his braces and kicking off his trousers. She’s not shy precisely as he leads her to the bed. Tentative but eager. A huff of a laugh as he pulls her atop him and she explores his bare chest with her palms. She’s beautiful, Sophie Mercer. All light and gold, the likes of which no miner could possibly find. Clean and shining. Too valuable for an old Irishman with scarred knuckles. But that doesn’t stop him from stroking them up her sides, underneath her small, high tits. He thumbs the strawberry tips. Kisses them, too. She gasps again, rocking her hips, spreading her thighs. She’s wet for him, ready like he knew she would be, and he’s just now getting started.

He’ll know every inch of her before this night is out. And maybe…maybe…he’ll remember the man he could be. 

\--end--


End file.
